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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178016">With Patches of Pink</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celestios/pseuds/Celestios'>Celestios</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kpop - Fandom, NCT (Band), RPF - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Play, Alien AU, Aliens, Baby boy Mark, Crying, Daddy Johnny, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Diapers, Don't interact if you're under 18, Don't read if you don't like, Kidnapping, Mommy Chungha, NO rape, Non Consensual touching, Omorashi, RPF, Stockholm Syndrome, Temper Tantrums, Wetting, bottles, cgl, don't read if you're under 18, forced age play, i really mean that, language barriers, non consensual infantilism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:28:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,686</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178016</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celestios/pseuds/Celestios</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Chungha and Johnny have always wanted their own very little human! During a work trip, they just so happen to find the perfect one!</p><p>OR</p><p>Chungha and Johnny are aliens who take Mark to be their spoiled little baby.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Johnny Seo/Chungha</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>248</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Awake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>((Since the thread kept getting broken on Twitter, it's posted to ao3 as well! Please proceed at your own risk and don't read if you don't like!))</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark doesn’t think he’s still drunk, but surely, he must be. And his realizations come in stages; he wakes feeling relaxed and content until he remembers where he had been, and wonders why no one’s woken him up yet. There is no loud ruckus of his classmates, no arguing over coffee, no hangover induced moans. There’s nothing but silence, save for a deep rumble of white noise that almost puts him back to sleep. It’s soothing, like the sound of a heater or a fan, and he feels himself drawn to it until he remembers that there are no fans in his camping tent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wakes up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wakes up and startles immediately at the bright white ceiling above him. At first he’s confused, only confused, wondering if he had drunk so much that he’d ended up in the hospital. How embarrassing; to get so plastered that he’d needed his stomach pumped. And on the last day of his ethnography project, no less. What a shameful anthropology major. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But those feelings fade fast when he sits up and realizes that no, this is not a hospital, and no, he has not had his stomach pumped. He looks to the side through the bars of the bed where he lies, reaching out to touch them with his hands, and how small he feels. They are large and wooden, flat slats so wide that he can barely maneuver his arm through. He peers down at himself, surely still tipsy, because he feels almost no reaction. He can feel a little something there, somewhat distant. Like, his head hurts and he needs to pee and he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill</span>
  </em>
  <span> for some water, but he’s also floaty and his head feels heavy, like he’s just woken up from the deepest sleep of his life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His shoes are gone, but he still has his socks. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and he smells a little too strongly for his own liking. So, wherever he is, he hasn’t been hurt or really touched, so he probably hasn’t been robbed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But where are his classmates? Did they leave him? Were they harmed at all? Are they okay? Are they lost, or looking for him perhaps? He hopes so.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stands up, and that’s when he realizes the full extent of his situation. The bars are too tall for him to simply hop. And surely, Mark is agile enough to. He’s hopped many fences in his life, and pulling himself up is surely no issue. But only his fingertips can reach the tips of the edge of the side of this . . . Contraption. A soft contraption, with a firm but cushioned mattress, blue sheets, no pillows or blankets. It reminds him of a crib, like the kind his friend’s baby used to sleep in. But it’s big, too big for him, and he curses himself for being a little too tipsy to process anything now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But, drunk or not, a hop is a hop, and he will be damned if he doesn’t try. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulls himself up, socked feet sliding against the bars, and cries out when he slips, landing on the padded bed beneath him. His fingers sting, an irritated red, but it’s not awful. He shakes his hands out and winces, tears of frustration pooling in his eyes. What the fuck! Where is he? Where is everyone? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He kicks at the bars, yelling when the sole of his foot connects with the bar, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s a thick, sturdy kind of wood, meant to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hold</span>
  </em>
  <span> things. But Mark is not a thing. He is a twenty one year old college student who’s lost and surely starting to panic. He can feel his heart rate pick up faster than it ever has, and his stomach churn with anxiety, like he’s going to puke. Maybe it’s the fear or the alcohol still kicking, but he thinks that he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> puke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He jumps when he hears a door open, a barely audible noise, and looks up again when he’s approached. Yes, he must still be drunk. Maybe he’s high, too. Maybe his drink had been laced with something because there’s no way that what he’s seeing before him is real. It can’t be.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <span>The woman is pretty, he can tell that underneath his own terror, but that’s where her human characteristics end. Her skin is pink, a pale pink, the kind that reminds him of iced strawberry milk, with glittery complexions running along her cheekbones and chin. It’s like she took a fingertip of glitter and spread it down her cheekbones, sprinkled it at the very top of them, too. Her lips are doll like, red as can be, her smile so wide and pretty when she looks down at him, and down is a far way away, he feels. She’s . . . Tall. Too tall. She’s surely impossibly tall because she’s bending over at the waist over the bed-contraption and he finds himself scrambling backwards, back pressed against the bars, digging into his skin through his t shirt, and flannel. He thinks that he might be dreaming now instead of drunk when she blinks all four eyes peering down at him, lashes thick and long, like the makeup students at school always wear. But hers are dusted with a light shade of pink to match her eyes, all four of them, and when she reaches out a hand, to touch him, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> him maybe, he realizes that her touch is real, that this is real, that he can feel it, and he starts to bawl. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Subtle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Chungha scares her baby, but she doesn't mean to.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chungha’s hearts pound when she hears the crackling on the baby monitor, a cute and cheap thing they’d bought for their trip, a pretty pink and white thing. She hears some sudden noises and knows that now, her baby must be awake, and she quickly hurried to jostle her mate.</p><p> </p><p>“The baby’s up!” </p><p> </p><p>Johnny looks up from what he’s working on suddenly. “Do you want to go check on them?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll go. But I might need help,” she rushes off to get to her little human, left alone, probably so frightened and confused. She walks into the nursery to see nothing out of place, and perfect, she thinks. So they <em> can’t </em>get out of the crib. They’d been afraid that the human could’ve climbed up but it seems that so far, it won’t be an issue.</p><p> </p><p>She leans over the edge of the crib and her breath <em> stops </em> when she sees their baby, wide eyes glossy, mouth framed into a frown. They inch away from her when she reaches out to touch them, and when she goes to pick them up, she pulls back as they start to cry. It doesn’t start subtly at all; they erupt into tears and she finds herself shocked and frozen for the moment before she remembers what to do. They’d been researching this for years. Taking a human into care was something highly esteemed, that only wealthy and powerful people could do, and to finally achieve that level in life, come to that next step was an accomplishment for them, as well as a life goal. She was so excited to have her own baby. It took years and years of research, approval, paperwork, and travel. And all of it has paid off now as she looks down at the sweet little human, hair so thick and fluffy, so light. Her heart is filled to the brim with joy and emotion and it takes <em> her </em> a moment to father herself so that <em> she </em>doesn’t cry.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t cry, baby, come here,”</p><p> </p><p>She knows that they can’t understand her, why would they? They do not speak the same language. Just like Earth, her planet has so many languages and cultures, and it was impossible to pinpoint where she would even get a human. So she wouldn’t be bothered to learn a language her baby couldn’t speak. She can always use a translator if the situation is dire but Johnny and she have discussed their options. Their baby will learn their language like they learned their own native tongue. By exposure and experience. So, she knows that while they cannot understand her, they can pick up on her tone. </p><p> </p><p>They kick out against her feet and yell something she doesn’t understand, and something she doesn’t think she’s bothered to. She can plug her translator in but she knows that by the simple words repeated over and over they’re most likely any baby’s first words. “No.” </p><p> </p><p>When she reaches out to finally grab them, because she’s much bigger and much stronger, they start to shake and she soon realizes why. They’ve wet themselves. Poor Mark, her poor baby.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no,” she coos, “it’s okay, it’s okay,”</p><p> </p><p>Her baby says something else, shouts it angrily, but she just picks them up from under the arms, settling them against her hip. They fit against her hip perfectly, so small, so petite. They push away from her, palms digging into her side, but she just thumps them on the back rhythmically and bounces them. </p><p> </p><p>“I think we need to get Daddy to help hold you down, huh? You’re so fussy, aren’t you?” </p><p> </p><p>They reply with something hissed and she just laughs, sticking her head out the door. “Johnny! Come help me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Coming!”</p><p> </p><p>Mark stills when they hear her mate’s voice, eyes darting around now frantically. They stop struggling, stop crying, just pant. She takes the opportunity to walk into the bathroom, flicking on the light, smiling down as sweetly as she can to show them that everything is okay.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“Baby wet themself,” she says, actively avoiding using their baby’s name to keep them clueless for the time being. She doesn’t want them to know they’re discussing them at the moment. She grabs some supplies from the drawer underneath. They mumble something, shifting about, but she ignores it. “They’re really fussy today. I might need you to hold them down while I get them ready for a bath. And while I <em> give </em> them a bath. Someone’s very unhappy.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s fine,” </p><p> </p><p>Their baby quiets down when she places them onto the floor, just the tile so they won’t get urine all over the bath mat. It’s a soft and fuzzy blue mat, picked to the comfort level (hopefully) of their baby. They look so <em> small </em> and so <em> scared </em>. She feels awful about this, watching Johnny press down on the baby’s arms in a hug, folding them across their chest while she fills the tub. They start yelling again, mixed in with crying those large, pitiful tears, and she coos as she strips off their pants and underwear, trying to go as quickly as she can. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” she repeats, in her hushed tone, hoping they will pick up on it, “it’s okay.” </p><p> </p><p>She goes to wipe them down with a wet, soapy cloth before the bath, noticing that their baby does in fact have a penis. But they know that the matter of sex, sex characteristics, internally and externally, and gender as well as gender expression, is a social construct and don’t want to assign their baby a gender until their baby is ready to let them know what they feel. She wipes them down, ignoring the fussy, messy crying and angry shouts. When she’s done, Johnny works on finishing getting their baby undressed. They fight adamantly, but it’s really not much use since they’re just a weak little human. They take care not to accidentally hurt them or be too rough when undressing them.</p><p> </p><p>When the baby does manage to scratch Johnny, he grabs their wrists.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he says in a stern voice, just enough to have them settle just a bit. “<em> No. </em>No.”</p><p> </p><p>Mark seems to understand the word, she thinks, she can see the gears turning in their head, but after a few calm seconds they start to fight again. Johnny just sighs, scooping them up as if they weigh nothing. “Are we ready for a bath? Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s then that Mark tries to plead again, this time in an entirely different language. Johnny and Chungha stop and stare at one another, then back at Mark who then switches to <em> another </em> language, eyes brimmed with tears. And another. And another.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuc”—</p><p> </p><p>“Johnny!”</p><p> </p><p>“They can’t understand yet!” He laughs, mouth open wide from the sudden awe of realizing that their baby is <em> much </em> more intelligent or at least <em> linguistically </em> than either of them have realized. And maybe even more linguistically experiences than <em> them </em>.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Bath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mark learns the meaning of the word no</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mark is terrified. He thinks he’s died and maybe gone to hell or is having a horrible nightmare. He doesn’t know what these things are, but whatever they are, they’re huge and they’re strong, picking him up and cradling him as if he weighs nearly nothing. He’s small and skinny sure but he’s still a healthy twenty one year old. And it makes him feel like he’s gonna pass out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t understand them and doesn’t know if they can understand </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> but he tries anyway, screaming, begging, pleading, in any language he knows. None of it works. They just coo at him and looked shocked, admirable even.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only thing he thinks he understands is the one syllable they keep repeating to him over and over. He manages to scratch the man (he thinks it’s a man) and he grabs him, tells him no, he thinks. The man is also scarier than the woman, for some reason. Maybe it’s the subtle shade of blue in his skin, flushing under the skin like a hue, like how Mark gets pink when he’s embarrassed and green when he’s sick. He only has two eyes and he speaks low and gentle but he doesn’t smile as much as the woman does. He thinks he likes the woman better. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They try to bathe him and whenever he moves around too much or tries to push their hands away, they repeat the same word over and over again. Mark is a polyglot; he picks up on languages quite easily. He knows the meaning of the word is probably no. But he needs to test it out first just to be sure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waits until the woman tries to scrub at him again with the soft cloth covered in soap when he smacks her hand away, allowing himself to feel anger. It’s valid, he reminds himself. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>kidnapped him. But she gives him a strict look and repeats the word again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It means no.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, Mark, being the polyglot and millennial he is, uses this new word to his advantage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!” he repeats it, pushing her away again, trying to stop the man’s hands from holding him again as well. “No!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But despite his anger, despite bearing his teeth and growling the word, they both simply just </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Their laughs are amused giggles, like he’s just a baby, or a pet that’s learned a new trick, and he smacks the water angrily with his hands. The woman grabs his hands again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, Mark. No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He freezes at the sound of his own name, accented, but still his name. How do they know his name? He tries to pull his hands away, screaming in fury when she doesn’t let go. Why is she so </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He kicks his legs now, nearing a proper meltdown, trying to create as much chaos as he can. But he’s so small compared to them, feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>weak </span>
  </em>
  <span>compared to them, so he tries to stomp his feet in the water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark.” The man says his name in a clearly disapproving tone, frowning. And how dare he think he has the right to act like that. “Mark. No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark continues, trying to pull his hands back and under the water, hoping he’s slippery enough to get out of her grasp. But he’s not. So he just screams, panic rising, his breath growing shorter and shorter with each shout.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let go! Let go, let go, let go of me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>let go!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To his amazement, she does. He doesn’t know if she’s understood him, or the context clues, but she does and instantly he scoots away from her and crashes against the wall of the tub. He stops screaming now, taxed with emotional exhaustion, and just tries to breathe. They watch him for a moment before the woman reaches out to touch him. He flinches away, shaking his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns the tables on them now, and they exchange a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Tears</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mark is an angry crier. That's okay.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Changing Mark is the most difficult thing to do, the next difficulty is bathing them. It takes the two of them to get their baby undressed, into the bath, and out of it. Bathing takes time and patience and lots of mini fights, screaming and splashing. Mark isn’t a happy bather. That much is obvious. But getting them changed was the worst because, even if they were small and rather weak, they were still quick and agile. They have tried to </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> fight during them, kicking and scratching and even biting, and Chungha often had to ask Johnny to hold them down or in place during it, especially to make sure Mark didn’t hurt </span>
  <em>
    <span>themself</span>
  </em>
  <span> by fussing so much or even rolling off the heavily padded changing table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Today, they bangs their head against the table a couple times and kick their legs and Chungha just sighs.. They doesn’t really respond to the words “no” and “stop” now that they know what they mean. Mark just continues on, ignoring them. She’s wrestled their pants off, taking one sock with them accidentally, but she surrenders and calls for Johnny yet again, who has no problem coming in right away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is the b—oh wow, they’re very unhappy,” Johnny laughs a little at the sight of a half-dressed Mark fighting on the table, Mommy’s gentle hands keeping them in place. “I got them, don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know they’re more comfortable with me but I really can’t do it without you. They fight me more than you,” she explains, grabbing a wet cloth to wipe them down. “I’m not comfortable with the idea that it might be because they’re afraid of you…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure it’s just because they know I’m not going to tolerate it from them,” Johnny says. He stands above Mark on the other end of the table, saying a quick hello to them, before grabbing their flailing legs and pulling them up, grasping the back of their calves. Mark tries to squirm around some more, but it’s difficult given the new position they’re put in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chungha wipes them down with the wet cloth, listening to how their angry breaths grow quiet. Just as she’s about to slip the diaper underneath them, they say something in a language she can’t understand, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wails</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, my baby,” she coos, patting their cheek, thumb wiping tears out of their eyes. They turn their head the other way away from her as they sob loudly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark,” Johnny’s voice is soft, “it’s okay. We’re not hurting you. It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chungha finishes changing them, rubbing their belly for a few moments to get them to calm down. It doesn’t work and Mark starts to bang their fists against the padded sides of the table. Johnny lets them go, instantly picking them up so that they don’t try and hit the table again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rocks them, ignoring how Mark twists and turns away from him. They punch Johnny in the shoulder, yelling when Johnny gives their diapered butt a sharp smack. “No, Mark. No hitting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark, ever the dramatic baby, lets their head crash into Johnny’s chest and they continue on crying. They’re used to this by now. Bath time and changing time usually ends in tears. Sometimes, feeding time does, too. Bed time rarely does but Mark has their moments. But changings are the worst, with Mark screaming and crying, refusing all comfort and praise until they’ve fully worn themself out. And afterwards, if they’re tired enough, they can get them down for a nap. But right now they continue on, turning their head this way and that, refusing the pacifier. They seem to hate it. They always spit it out or throw it, a habit they’re trying to break them out of quite desperately. Spitting it out they can tolerate but throwing it is not.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark, it’s okay,” Chungha rubs their baby’s back, trying to soothe them some. It’s really just a matter of time until they tire themself out and they both remain patient until they do, just happy to have their baby with them finally. Mark babbles along in a language they don’t understand, and still aren’t bothering to, and they let them, understanding that it’s just part of their adaptation. It’s fine. They’ll let them speak and babble all they want. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, they start to quiet down, clinging to Johnny’s shirt, and they both find themselves relieved. With a bit more time they can put Mark down for a nap and continue on until the next meltdown. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Allergies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Though Johnny and Chungha both have jobs, they often take turns staying home to work and watch the baby. Mark is still adjusting to his new life and is learning everyday. Johnny spends the most time home with him, homeschooling him, and Mark spends most of the days learning new words and how to use them. They make a point of teaching him a few new words everyday, words for foods and emotions being the most important. Johnny sits with him and teaches him new words with flash cards and coloring and listens to Mark babble on as best as he can. It’s cute, listening to him try and mouth out the words, the sounds foreign to him. His accent is still thick, his mouth having issues making certain shapes, but they can still understand him most of the time. </span>
</p><p><br/>They learn Mark's pronouns using flashcards, asking him, and he seems to understand after a few long minutes of prior confusion. Mark learns at a quick pace with them and soon he's trying his best to communicate with them in their own language to the best of his abilities. It's hard, and it's frustrating at times, but they're always patient, even when he's reduced to angry tears and lashes out.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No” becomes Mark’s new favorite word.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He says it whenever he can, now understanding the full extent of the word. He tells them no whenever he can, trying his best not to anger them too much. No when they try to bathe him, no when they try to hold him, no when he’s held in their laps to be fed or put in his high chair. He pushes their hands away to let them no that he MEANS it and they usually just giggle, repeating the same words over and over that he doesn’t understand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he knows that no loses it’s meaning when it comes to them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They haven’t hurt him, not at all, treat him kindly and lovingly, keep him warm and (try to) keep him fed. He’s in a constant state of worry and crankiness but they don’t get mad or yell or hit him, just scoop him up and hold him, rocking him until he tires himself out. Some days are easier than others and some are better than others. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But no is important. Learning to adjust to a new diet has him saying no, crying messily into their shoulders due to his stomach cramps, avoiding foods that they try to give him. Sometimes they eat a bite or two to show him that it’s okay, that they wouldn’t give him anything that hurts him. “See?” They ask him in an exaggerated tone, on the edge of babyish. “See? Good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark knows good. He knows good, bad, no, see, stop, hungry, water and wet. It’s astounding to think of how he’s communicating with such little words, more with body language, more with signs, more with tears and crying and whining. It takes time to learn each new word, and they make a show each time of teaching him a new word, repeating it over and over until he begins to get it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He also knows what to call them. He doesn’t think it’s their names, because he hears them call each other different things, but he calls them that anyway because that’s what they teach him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark,” Mommy points to him. “Mark.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She then points to herself. “Mommy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that’s how Mark learns. Mommy and Daddy. Mommy. Daddy. He’s Mark. She’s Mommy. He’s Daddy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that’s how he communicates. Mommy, Daddy, no, good, bad.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark,” Mommy calls his name in a trying tone as he thinks about this, pushing back in his high chair. She says something and opens her mouth wide, trying to feed him a spoonful of the weird fruit from yesterday. He thinks the words mean open up. But he’s not sure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Open,” she says, mimicking a door opening with her hands. She then points to her mouth, then his. “Mouth.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mouth?” he taps his lips, thinking that it’s safe to speak right now as she puts the spoon down. He circles his lips with his index finger. “Mouth?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mouth,” she repeats, nodding, her smile wide. She taps his nose with a laugh. “Nose.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nose,” he repeats, pointing to his nose, “mouth,” he points to his mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nose, mouth,” she confirms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Open?” He uses his hands to signal opening a book, then a door, watching as she nods proudly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Open.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She picks the spoon up again and immediately he clams his mouth shut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He whines between pressed lips, twisting in his chair and reaching towards the table. He wants his bottle instead. His bottle doesn’t hurt his stomach. But he doesn’t know what it’s called or how to ask for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. No. Hungry. No hungry, no hungry,” he waves his hand towards his bottle, “mommy, mommy, hungry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She seems to understand now. She grabs the bottle and shows it to him. “Bottle?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark, bottle.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bottle?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bottle.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark thinks it’s a weird word, sounds so foreign on his tongue, but he says it anyway, with a bit of a lisp. “Bottle.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, Mark.” She finishes with something he can’t understand and he starts to fuss, angry that he doesn’t understand, confused that she won’t give him the bottle. He’s hungry and he’s tired and he just wants the stupid bottle, as it’s the only safe food for him as of yet. He doesn’t actually KNOW what’s in it; it can’t be real dairy because it doesn’t hurt his stomach but it’s still thick and creamy and filling. It’s not bad. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tears prick at his eyes but he wipes them away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bottle! Bottle, bottle, mommy,” he whines. She says something he also doesn’t understand but before he can lash out, she undoes the trauma of the chair and picks him up, placing him on her hip where he fits so perfectly. It feels wrong, how well he fits against her, how customized his body is to hers. How small he is. How big she is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sits down at the table, pulling him into her lap and gives him the bottle. She strokes his back as he drinks, straddling her, hiding his face in her chest, ignoring that it’s her breast he’s pressing his face against. She starts to speak to Daddy, things he doesn’t understand, but tries to listen for words to pick up on. He understands only a couple but soon loses interest as they go back and forth, too fast for him to follow, and focuses solely on his bottle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he still not eating?” Johnny asks, noting how Mark is hiding against Chungha as he sucks on his bottle. She combs her fingers through his hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s really fussy when I try to feed him. I think that he must have allergies.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He could just be stubborn or dislike the food,” Johnny suggests.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, that’s not it. He was in pain yesterday,” they both have had to calm his cries of pain, endless, weary, leaving them both physically tired and mentally exhausted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We could just eliminate allergens,”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can’t if he won’t eat,” she tries to smile down at him but Mark presses his forehead into her chest. “He’s so sweet. I just wish he could tell us what’s wrong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have to give it time,” Johnny walks over to pat Mark’s head. “He’s smart. He’s learning fast.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark whines, trying to shake his head free of Johnny’s hand, digging his face into Chungha. She just giggles and just shushes him, continuing to stroke his back and call him good.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Xuxi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mark doesn't like playdates with his cousins.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mark doesn’t hate being rocked, he thinks, or lightly bounced. He likes being held, by Mommy especially, and it’s comforting when she bounces him. He usually lies his head down against her shoulder, pretending that he’s not sucking his thumb by facing the other way. When they catch him, they try to give him a pacifier, and he often spits it out or throws it or tries to hide it somewhere like under the sofa. But everytime they catch him. He doesn’t know how they do it. But Mommy </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> have four eyes, so maybe she can just see twice as much? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t know how to ask her just yet. Once he learns more words, he will.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mommy bounces him a bit, trying to soothe him enough to put him down onto the play rug with his cousins. He knows this. But everytime she does, he just clings to her. He can feel that she’s probably sighing but she doesn’t make any noise, but he’s lying right up against her chest and can feel the deep breaths. He doesn’t feel bad. He doesn’t want to be with his cousins. It never ends well, usually because of him, but it’s because he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like them</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he doesn’t want to be around them. They’re not mean, they’re just . . . kind of annoying. The one called Xuxi is okay, he doesn’t really bother Mark, but Winnie is so annoying . . . always trying to play with him, always in his personal space, always trying to give him things. He usually sucks on a pacifier so Mark can’t understand him. But even if he did, Winnie won’t speak to him really, not in any language other than the one native to this place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he was first introduced to them, and they left them on the rug to play, Mark had tried to ask them questions in English, begging them to listen but Xuxi had just told him “We don’t speak English here” and that had been that. When Mark had tried again, asking Winnie if he spoke anything else, Xuxi had told him again “Winnie doesn’t speak” and then maybe the name of the language. He doesn’t know. Xuxi is Winnie’s big brother, but Mark thinks that he’s supposed to be older than the both of them, because he doesn’t suck on a pacifier or wear diapers and he speaks a lot more than the both of them do. He’s probably been here a long time to speak so naturally and fluently and the thought scares Mark.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He loves his Mommy and his Daddy, but he still doesn’t know how long he’s going to be around. Didn’t it take years to perfect a language? How long has Xuxi been here? He wants to ask but he knows that if he does, Xuxi will probably scold him. Or worse, he’ll rat him out, and then he’ll have to sit in his dumb little ‘calming corner’. It’s like they want to make time out less stressful for him, so they sit him in a corner on a beanbag and give him squishy toys but Mark never uses them. And whenever they do, Xuxi just looks at him, a kind of ‘disappointed but not surprised’ look and it makes Mark </span>
  <em>
    <span>livid</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wants to throw his squishy toys at Xuxi’s head, but he doesn’t, because he’s afraid of him. He’s bigger than Mark and he’s ‘older’ than Mark and he’s a snitch. Even if Xuxi is pretty and smiles at him when he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> complacent and quiet, he still doesn’t think he like shim very much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s also loud and too friendly and excitable and Mark doesn’t like that either. He doesn’t prefer Winnie though, doesn’t prefer one over the other, despite Winnie being small and quiet and pretty immovable. He just sits on the rug or lies there, only crawling around if necessary. He doesn’t really do much. But when he does, he drives Mark up the wall, and then it usually ends in tears because Mark can’t stop himself from lashing out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that’s why he doesn’t want to let go of his Mommy. He wants to tell her all of this but he doesn’t know how, so he just tells her “no”.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark,” she says his name in </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> tone, followed by something he doesn’t understand. He’s starting to get upset now, squirming when she goes to put him down, prying her shirt from his grip. Mark dramatically flings himself down onto the rug to lie down, crossing his arms and pulling his knees up to his chest. She pats his leg and tells him something that he doesn’t understand either. He thought he’d be able to speak and listen much more than this at this rate, but he doesn’t understand. He just </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t get it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The language is too confusing sometimes and the flashcards are helping and the homeschooling is helping but it’s not as easy as how learning his other languages had been. Maybe it’s stress, he tells himself. Or the fact he has </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one</span>
  </em>
  <span> to translate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, he does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Xuxi doesn’t listen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark lies on the rug, unmoving, while Mommy and Daddy talk to his . . . uncle, he thinks, but he doesn’t bother listening because he can’t understand more than their tones. They sound happy, familiar chatter with soft tones audible from where he lies, his cheek smushed into the carpet. But he doesn’t move.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He startles when he feels a hand on his hip and turns back to see Winwin, with a stuffed rabbit. He squints, trying </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to look so annoyed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Winnie holds out the stuffed rabbit to him. It’s a nice gesture of him but Mark doesn’t want it, so he just shakes his head. “No” he says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Winnie doesn’t seem to understand because he tilts his head and just holds the rabbit out again and Mark sighs, aggravated, because he really wants to be left alone. He doesn’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>deal</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Winnie right now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, Winnie,” he says, “no want. Yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hopes Winnie can understand that. Mark isn’t speaking as fluently as Xuxi can, so he hopes that the message gets across. Either Winnie doesn’t seem to understand or he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>care</span>
  </em>
  <span> because he just nudges Mark with the rabbit. Finally, Mark’s patience wears out, and he sits up, shoving Winnie away with a hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I said no!” Mark raises his voice in English, scolding be damned. He expects Winnie to get mad or for Xuxi to come running but what he doesn’t count on is Winnie actually falling over. Winnie starts to cry and Mark knows he’s in deep shit now. He didn’t know Winnie had been crouching down next to him! He thought he’d been sitting! How was he supposed to know he’d fall over!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark panics when he hears his name being called and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> starts crying. He hadn’t meant to hurt his cousin, he really hadn’t, but he can’t tell them that because they </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t speak English</span>
  </em>
  <span> or</span>
  <em>
    <span> Korean</span>
  </em>
  <span> or French or any other language. He wipes his eyes when Daddy comes over, of course it’s Daddy, and he tries his best to think of words to explain what’s happening. Mark’s never hurt anyone in his life, he’s never been in a fight, never done more than just hissily lost his temper, maybe made a passive aggressive comment. He’d just been </span>
  <em>
    <span>upset</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Winnie wouldn’t leave him alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watches his uncle Ten pick Winnie up instantly, leaving the stuffed rabbit on the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark,” Daddy goes to pick him up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t! It wasn an accident! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Mark cries, trying to push Daddy away. He can see Xuxi from the corner of his eye, and the thought makes him lose the rest of his resolve. Daddy picks him up and pats his back a few times, bouncing him on his hip while Mommy brushes his bangs back and tries to give him a pacifier. He takes it from her but doesn’t put it in his mouth, opting to bury his face in Daddy’s chest. He feels bad now. He thinks Winnie is annoying, but that’s where his negative feelings end. He’s never wanted to hurt him. And he can’t even let him know that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Daddy places him down on his beanbag, giving him the same squishy toy that he instantly squeezes between his fingers gently, and listens to  the both of them speaking to his uncle. He can hear Winnie’s crying quiet down, and then his uncle saying something. He feels so guilty now. What if they hate him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he hears Xuxi saying something, saying his name, saying Winnie’s name, and he frowns. Why is he talking about him? What is he saying? He’d seen what had happened, so is he explaining it? Is he being honest at least, if he is? He hears his uncle say something after, and then his Mommy and his Daddy’s voices. They whisper and Mark’s heart sinks when he realizes he doesn’t understand them no matter how hard he tries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark spends a few more minutes in his corner, going back and forth between staring at the wall and then his stress toy. He hears someone walk over to him, and he doesn’t look up, too upset to see his caregivers. He feels a gentle tap on his shoulder and he frowns. Mommy and Daddy never tap him on the shoulder. He turns his head slightly as Xuxi comes over to him and sits down, smiling just a bit. Politely, even. That makes him feel worse. Xuxi is probably going to tell him that he’s a brat and that he hates him and he won’t even be able to understand him because he won’t speak anything other than--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mark. I told them what you said,”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Xuxi whispers in Korean and Mark nearly falls off of his bean bag. He didn’t know Xuxi even spoke anything other than English. He’d only ever answered him twice in English. Was Xuxi Korean? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told them. It’s okay. Don’t cry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark had stopped crying minutes ago, his eyes dry and puffy, but when Xuxi puts a hand on his knee he starts crying again. Xuxi’s eyes widen and immediately he retracts his hand. Mark rubs at his eyes with his wrists and apologies again in Korean. He doesn’t care if they hear him, they won’t punish him for speaking his other languages. And this time, Xuxi doesn’t scold him, just shushes him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Mark,” Xuxi shushes him, kissing his forehead, and Mark pulls back. Why was he kissing him? Xuxi ruffles his hair and giggles. “Do you want to go apologize to Winnie?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark nods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay. In our language we say ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry.’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Just like that, okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark only ever needs to hear the phrase once, in Xuxi’s deep, vibrating voice and he nods, repeating it over and over. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Xuxi switches back to their own language now, the one Mark still struggles to learn, the one he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to learn if he wants to be able to live here, to understand them, to be heard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Mark nods, and Xuxi tugs him up by the hands, taking him by the hand back to the caregivers, to apologize to Winnie. Xuxi squeezes his hand and Mark doesn’t really mind it so much anymore.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(( Twitter: @autumnacorns ))</p></blockquote></div></div>
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